


Coward

by HeatherGiesbrecht



Category: Crimson Peak (2015)
Genre: Affection, Animal Death, Birds, British, British English, British Slang, Brother-Sister Relationships, Brother/Sister Incest, Bugs & Insects, Caning, Canon - Book & Movie Combination, Canonical Child Abuse, Caring, Child Neglect, Children, Cold, Complete, Cookies, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, F/M, Fainting, Fear, Ghosts, Hunters & Hunting, Illnesses, Implied/Referenced Incest, Love, Mild Language, One Shot, POV Child, POV Third Person, Painkillers, Plotbunnies, Pre-Canon, Pre-Crimson Peak, Purple Prose, Serious, Sibling Incest, Slice of Life, Sound Effects, Threats of Violence, Understanding, Victorian, Victorian Attitudes, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-15 08:52:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5779414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeatherGiesbrecht/pseuds/HeatherGiesbrecht
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He couldn’t even bring himself to watch her kill them, they were helpless like himself and Lucille against Mama.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coward

Thomas’s heart thudded in his throat, his palms slick as he croaked, “D-do you have to ?” He couldn’t even bring himself to watch her kill them, the doves he meant, they were helpless, like himself and Lucille against Mama.

Lucille’s voice was flat, “We have to eat Thomas.” The aquamarine eyes softened, “Now go fetch Mama’s wine.” before she kissed him lightly.

His head felt full of cotton as he turned and walked unsteadily over the chipped dirty white-tile floor past the gentlemen servants quarters. The air was warmer outside than in as he moved into the garden and approached the cellar with its worn oak doors and discoloured wrought iron handles. He shuddered to see the doors covered in a horde of black moths. Really, he didn’t know how Lucille stood taking care of them, the restless souls of the two boys.

The illusion of sight caused by the eyespots - it felt like the boys were judging him. Why did Papa have to neglect the mine and cause them to die in the first place ? Well, Papa hadn’t cared about anyone, but himself, and his drinking...and his whoring, so it made sense. Yet he’d not want to anger the ghosts either and so waved his hands a bit, “Shoo, shoo, I need to get inside. Papa is long dead so w-why don’t you go ? Ah !” Said moths had burst away from the door to swarm around him before flocking up towards the attic.

Now feeling more faint than ever he pulled open the doors and descended. Unlike one would’ve thought the wine cellar was not cool, it was instead humid, low-ceilinged, dark and very claustrophobic which certainly helped him not at’ll. As he took deep breaths, eyes straining to see anything, he made his way toward the far right shelf and the fourth bottom row, third off the leftmost middle. Mama’s favourite wine was some incredibly expensive French white wine from 1714, since his hands were already wet he almost dropped the bottle. Thank god that he’d caught it or Mama would’ve tried to drown him like she always threatened. Therefore with the bottle clutched tightly to his chest he returned to the kitchen.

His hands were shaking too much to keep the bottle in one place on the counter. Clink-clink-clink, “Fecking thing stay where I put you, stay, stay, finally.”

Distantly he heard Lucille ask, “Thomas ? Are you alright ?” before he felt himself start to fall. When his eyes opened once more his head lay in Lucille’s lap as she hummed, stroked his hair.

She looked glorious, her chin length raven hair backlit as it framed the pale, delicate face and those brilliant eyes. After he pushed himself up as the sapphire-papered walls swayed Lucille pressed a glass of water to his lips and commanded, “Drink.” so he drank.

Ever since Papa’d abandoned him in the snow two years ago, he’d contracted hypothermia and nearly died, she’d become even more insistent on taking care of him when ill. The last drop of water slid down his throat before she cooed, “Good, that deserves a present later don’t you think ?”

Present, present ? A hopeful, “Biscuit ?” left him. It didn’t matter they were by now doubtlessly hard as granite and stale as anything since they’d been in the pantry longer than Papa’d been in the ground, but bugger it he wanted one. He’d even take just a bit of stale apricot and a crumb, anything.

“You can have one tonight...after the present.”

Aw, but he wanted one now. Of course, he knew better than to argue because Lucille was what Mama should’ve been - loving, caring etc. Three years ago after Papa had strangled him, declared him dead, and unofficially disowned him, he’d realized that had they not been, “Unwanted, disappointing wastes of flesh.” their lives would’ve turned out much different.

Yes, he’d been even more of a disappointment than Lucille who was already more of a man than him seeing Papa’d tried to kill him for effeminacy. Why effeminacy ? He hated violence, he’d only ever gone along hunting as a last effort to prove himself to Papa. Much rather he’d make something, read or daydream than play cards, so on and so forth.

Even now he still remembered the anger in Papa’s eyes when Lucille had brought him inside. For whatever reason the huge man hadn’t decided to beat them at the same time. He knew now that Papa’s hope was that he’d die, yet another way he’d disappointed the man. All he’d ever been was a failure on one turn or the next.

Thud-thud went Mama’s walking stick as she approached the kitchen. They scrambled to move to propriety demanded distance, he ended up sat at the trestle table facing the servants quarters. Such was he sat that Mama’s haggard face and angry eyes were the first thing he saw as she rounded the corner.

A lock of silver hair fell as Mama barked, “Boy, pour me my wine !” then wheezed before the ebony walking stick pointed at Lucille, “You...get me my laudanum.”

Harried as he was, it was not fetching the wine glass nor the pouring of wine that doomed him to failure. No, it was the blasted chip in the fifth tile from the counter, which caused him to trip thus shattering the glass and covering himself in spilt wine.

Mama started toward him, “You little shit, that wine was over a hundred years old ! Now it is wasted, useless, like you. At least Michael and I could agree how annoying and ungrateful you both are. You’re lucky that Theresa was here when you were born or I would’ve drowned you.”

Lucille moved to stand in Mama’s way, “I scared him earlier, it is my fault, Mama, I’m the bad one.”

He closed his eyes just before the cane slammed into Lucille’s shoulder blades. Tried to pretend that he and Lucille were sat on his bed in the nursery, reading, that the thuds were just the lift acting up again. Eventually the noises stopped and Mama sent them to bed once again with no food, they would have to sneak some later. Lucille rejected his hand with a glare to slowly straighten up and hobble from the kitchen. Yet when they got up to the nursery, when he’d stripped out of his soiled clothes she pulled him onto the sofa. She pressed back against his chest and already he could feel the welts, oh Lucille, poor Lucille, always getting hurt because of him.

Apologetically, he kissed the riding crop scars below her nape, “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

Death was the only way out and sometimes...it didn't work. The shadow-like ghosts of two little boys watched as they fell asleep, wishing they could forget the clay that had suffocated them. They melded back into the moths, they would never forget nor would they leave.


End file.
